


An Enderman's Curse

by Aioni



Series: Short Stories [7]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Blood, Dream Team SMP Spoilers, Gen, Hearing Voices, Hurt, Hurt No Comfort, Inspired by Music, Not Beta Read, POV Second Person, Panic, Short Story, inspired by a youtube comment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-17 04:48:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29219748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aioni/pseuds/Aioni
Summary: Being in a panic room with no one around really plays a toll on your mind.
Series: Short Stories [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1788058
Kudos: 22





	An Enderman's Curse

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place during the Eggpire/Imprisonment arc. 
> 
> ++||//TRIGGER WARNINGS!!\\\||++  
> -Lots of blood  
> -Panicking  
> -Derealization(?)  
> -Voices in head  
> -Terror(?)  
> -Manipulation 
> 
> Please note that this is in 2nd POV (which means you/your, etc is used!) and that MAY trigger something (not entirely sure)! Please be extra careful when reading this or just don't read it at all. Your mental state is WAY more important than me getting views, kudos, etc. 
> 
> Inspired by Amelia's comment on
> 
> [this](https://youtu.be/KY-fZECqg0c)
> 
> and also the music! Listen to it while reading if you want.

You're an Enderman hybrid. Half Enderman, half something—you're not really sure what. Half of your skin is midnight black and the other half is a snow-like white color. Your hair is the same way, just the colors are reversed. You have a horn, too, for your Enderman side. You did have two, but the one on your unknown side was hacked off rather uncleanly. You can still feel the phantom pains from it, the phantom blood trickling down your head. 

You reach your hand up to feel the stub of your broken horn, feeling the jagged edges of it. This doesn't help you calm down in any way, you just wanted to feel it as if it was your first time touching the painful memory. 

Speaking of memories, you constantly lose them. No matter what state your in, you lose the thing that is most precious to you; your memories. You have an extremely hard time remembering what you did not even five minutes ago—how do people expect you to remember what you did yesterday or the day before? You don't know. You're just thankful you haven't forgotten how to live. You briefly wonder if you'll ever forget how to breathe.

You clutch your memory book tighter in your hands, rereading the " _DO NOT READ_ " title hastily scribbled onto it, again and again, like a coping mechanism. In some ways, it is. Reading the title over and over again calms you because you know your memory book is right where you left it. In your hands.

Vaguely, you remember people taking it away from you. Writing things down in it with handwriting that very closely matches your chicken scratch. Since you very much rely on this book to keep track of what you did, it's very easy to manipulate your memories. Too easy, in fact—you recall it happening several times. 

So, you built this. You built your "panic room"; you come here whenever you feel you're under extreme stress and panic. There's a lone jukebox in the corner of this tiny room. Currently, it's playing "Fallen Down". However, the disc seems to be cracked in some spots as it's not playing the song you remember. It's slowed down and you think it's pitch shifted a bit—it also sounds echo-y. You wonder if someone tampered with your music disc. 

On either side of the obsidian walls there's wooden signs. On them, you wrote (with your chicken scratch handwriting—you think there's blood on them from how hard you pressed your claws into the wood): "Everything's fine", "Dream is the reason", "Don't pick sides, pick people", among others. You telling yourself that everything's okay, that it will be better soon. 

Dream. He's the reason you're like this, isn't he? He's the reason you're in this predicament, the reason why you built your panic room. The reason why you have a memory book. The reason why you can't trust people to tell you who you are. He's at fault for everything, right? Blaming the destruction of the Community House on you, when you know it wasn't you. 

_Or was it?_ A small, quiet voice asks in the back of your mind. You ignore it. The Community House wasn't you, no matter how many times Dream (or anyone else for that matter) says it was. Your memory won't fail you here.

 _Or will it?_ The voice asks again. You ignore it. You look back down at your memory book. There's slash marks on it, you note. Slash marks, a purple blood-like substance in trace amounts. It looked as if a war was fought over this single book you wrote.

Before you could delve into your thoughts even more, a loud crackling noise interrupted you. You jump in panic and look to your jukebox. There's a figure leaning over it, slowly pulling out the disc and jiggling it a little, hoping that it'd get scratched as it pulled the disc out. 

You watched in fear as the figure slowly turned its head toward you. There was a mask on its face, but parts of it were cracked off. A large shallow slash runs down the middle of the mask, slightly tilted. It smiles and you can see how sharp its teeth are. 

"Hello," it greets, yanking out the disc. "Fallen Down" has surely stopped by now and your heart rate quickens. That's the only song that calms you down. "Aren't you going to say it back?" It asks, slightly frowning. You can still see its teeth, though.

"H-Hi," you shakily say. Its bright smile returns. "Hello!" It replies, its hand tightening around the disc, cracking it. "Th-That's my disc…" You mumble, looking at the disc rather than at it.

"Oh?" It stops crushing the disc. "It is?" It huffs slightly, as if laughing. "I thought it was Tommy's, my bad," it lets go of the disc and it falls to the ground, small black shards scattering from it. You slide to the furthest corner away from that thing. "O-Oh…"

"Why are you backing away?" It asks, tilting its head slightly, teeth bared into a smile. "I'm your friend, Ranboo!" How does it know your name?

 _I'm your friend, Ranboo!_ The tiny voice repeats, and it sounds just like the figure in front of you. Somehow, the figure's smile gets wider, showing off all of its teeth. "You figured it out, _Ranboo_ ," your name drips like poison. "I'm impressed! Usually it takes longer—do you like ignoring your friend, _Ranboo?_ " It inches closer to you. Tears are beginning to stream down your face. 

"I—… No, I-I don't," you say. "I-I'm sorry." The figure nods, the smile not leaving its face. " _You should be_ ," the entire sentence drips like poison, now. 

_You should be_ , the voice repeats.   
_You should be._  
_You should be._  
_You should be._  
_You should be._  
_You should be._

"Now, Ranboo," it nears you. You try your best to get as small as possible. "As my friend, would you hand me that?" It points to your memory book that's being death gripped by you. "Wh-Why?" You ask, terrified. 

It laughs, the mask slightly revealing more of its grin. "Why not? We're friends, no? I want to help you, okay?" Its impossibly wide grin is gone, now replaced with a gentle smile. You feel yourself relax involuntarily. Still not feeling totally safe, you remain silent.

"Ranboo, give me the book or I'm going to _take_ it," it forcefully said. More tears are running down your face at this point as you relinquish your grip on your book and hand it to the figure. It gently smiles. "Thank you."

 _Thank you_ , the voice repeats.  
_Thank you._  
_Thank you._  
_Thank you._  
_Thank you._  
_Thank you._

You smile slightly in response, though it's the most wobbly smile you've ever given to someone. The figure stands upright, flicking through the pages. You can't see its eyes. "My poor Ranboo," it mutters. "Is this how you are?" The figure talks quietly now, reassuring you that its just had a bad day a few minutes ago. 

"I-... Ye-Yeah," you say. "I-I can't remember mu-much, so-so I write it d-down." You can't get rid of the stutter in your voice. "I see," it replies, its voice calm and soothing. Like your father, Philza, whenever you were having an episode while he was around. 

"This isn't your fault, Ranboo."

 _This isn't your fault, Ranboo_ , the voice repeats.   
_This isn't your fault, Ranboo._  
_This isn't your fault, Ranboo._  
_This isn't your fault, Ranboo._  
_This isn't your fault, Ranboo._  
_This isn't your fault, Ranboo._

"It never was—"

_It never was._  
_It never was._  
_It never was._  
_It never was._  
_It never was._  
_It never was._

"—and never will be." 

_And never will be._  
_And never will be._  
_And never will be._  
_And never will be._  
_And never will be._  
_And never will be._

"Okay?" It asks.   
"Okay," you respond. It nods, snapping the book shut and handing it back to you. It then backs up and when you are about to ask what its doing, it says "I'm not real, Ranboo," and disappears. 

_I'm not real._  
_I never was._  
_You're imaging it._  
_You always were._  
_I'm not real._  
_I never was._  
_You did it._  
_You destroyed everything._  
_Everything has gone to hell because of you, Ranboo._  
_Never forget._

You clutch your head, your sharp claws digging into your head, making blood seep from the small wounds. 

_Your fault._  
_Your fault._  
_Your fault._  
_Your fault._  
_You destroyed the Community House._  
_George's house._  
_L'manberg._  
_You caused the Eggpire to happen._  
_You killed Wilbur._  
_You let Dream escape._  
_Your actions make people hate you._

"STOP IT!" You screech, grabbing the closest thing to you and throwing it across the small room. It was your memory book that you chucked. It roughly it the wall and fell onto the ground. 

_No one is real._  
_You're not real._  
_Your memories are failing you._  
_You blew up the Community House._  
_Set George's house ablaze._  
_Summoned Withers on top of L'manberg._  
_Scarred Tommy for life._  
_Exiled him._  
_Left him with Dream._  
_You let Dream escape from prison._  
_Your fault._  
_Everything bad that happened is because of you._

You slam your head against the obsidian, hoping that would stop them. 

_You can't be free from me forever._

You did it again.

_No matter what you do, no matter where you hide._

And again.

_I will always find you._

And again. 

_No matter what._

You did it again, and this time you felt blood stream your face. 

_I will find you, and I will get you back._

You slammed your head against the obsidian again and fell forward, a small pool of purple blood moving into the cracks of the obsidian. 

You noticed your memory book was opened. It was opened to a page—a rather blank one—and all that was on it was:

:) 


End file.
